


die at tennis

by kiiouex



Series: Rovinsky Week 2018 [5]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: I've wanted to write this for such a long time, Incredibly Poor Sportsmanship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 03:40:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14347218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiiouex/pseuds/kiiouex
Summary: Kavinsky mimes a serve, a dismissive flick of his fingers. "See you on the court."





	die at tennis

**Author's Note:**

> this is an AU where uhhh all problems are solved with extremely aggressive anime tennis? I played tennis for a month in middle school that qualifies me to write this right
> 
> Thanks to [tk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/telekinesiskid) to beta reading, and sorry legitimate tennis fans for making fun of your hilarious sport. Title is from [the best comic I have ever read](http://betseyswardlick.tumblr.com/post/160125370389/why-did-i-do-this)

There is a pair of brand new, bright white tennis shoes on top of Ronan's bag. They sit in the middle of Monmouth, waiting to be needed in the afternoon game, incongruously clean with the rest of Ronan’s things. They were very certainly not brought at a store.  

Gansey looks at them. Adam looks at them. Both of them look at Ronan, who is stretched across the leather sofa, doing an excellent job of keeping his eyes on his magazine and not acknowledging that either of them exists.

Gansey tries to say it delicately. “Isn't this... cheating?”

Ronan turns a page, eyes on some shiny image of some shiny car, and does not comment.

“Maybe it's fair,” Adam offers. “We know Kavinsky cheats.”

Ronan snaps the next page across, ripping it, and refuses to look up.

“It doesn't seem fair to any of the _other_ players in the league then,” Gansey says. “Unless Ronan’s planning to only wear these for Kavinsky?”

The pages of Ronan’s magazine flap together tremendously as it enjoys a brief and glossy flight, before crashing into the far wall. Adam and Gansey look from the crash to him, one of them more surprised than the other. “You don't get it,” Ronan snaps, with a very accusative finger jab in their direction. “That asshole has been running his mouth all summer, saying he can beat me and I ain't shit, and today I’m going to fucking show him.”

Cautiously, Adam confirms “...at tennis?”

Ronan ignores him. “I know he's done _something_ to his racquet, his forehand has an _unreal_ amount of spin. I just can’t let him win today, because we're about equal now but if he gets this one he'll be goddamned insufferable.”

Again, Adam checks, “Because of tennis?”

Ronan rolls his eyes. “ _Yes,_ Parrish, what else?”

“Street racing. Forgeries. Drugs.” Adam starts ticking things off on his fingers. “Petty crime, real crime, all the fights you and him are always getting into.”

“Exactly!” Ronan exclaims, arms thrown wide. It occurs to Gansey and Adam at exactly the same second how much time Ronan spends competing with Kavinsky, and the rivalry has gotten quite… passionate. “He's the worst! He's a scumsucking bastard and _he needs to lose!_ ”

Adams eyes ask 'at tennis?' but his mouth stays wisely shut.

“I just go with it,” Gansey whispers to him. “Better this than racing, and it's good to see him apply himself. Besides tennis is a wonderful sport with an excellent vocabulary: dink, tweener, bagel…”

There is absolutely nothing Adam can say to that, so he turns his attention elsewhere. “So what do the shoes actually do?”

“You know,” Ronan says vaguely, a clear admission of guilt, “Good grip. Arch support. Little bit of a speed boost – but K’s shots are from that _fucking_ racquet, I need something to help me keep up with them.”

“All your power,” Adam says, “You could manifest anything in the _universe_. And you’re making extra-speedy tennis shoes.” Ronan curls his lip, and the fire in his eyes spells _Kavinsky_. Adam remains wildly unimpressed.

“I'll drive you to the match,” Gansey tells him, getting up in a transparent attempt to end the conversation. “Adam, do you want to come and watch with me?”

With another withering look at Ronan, Adam follows. “It’s going to end in blood.”

 

Aglionby has its own tennis courts, but weekend games are played at the Henrietta Club, a nice open-air space that should be relaxing on a warm afternoon. Ronan strides through the sparse crowd with all the bearing of a celebrity, bag slung over his shoulders, performance-enhancing shoes tucked inside.

He’s got his chin up proud, alert, the curve of his body so _anticipatory_ that it pains Adam not to point it out, even though Ronan will die and leave a stubborn skeleton before admitting Kavinsky is anything but a rival. As if the cry of _“Lynch!_ ” cutting the summer air isn’t a dogwhistle he snaps his head around to follow. People between Ronan and Kavinsky ease quickly out of the way as Kavinsky advances, racquet slung over his shoulder, sneer in place.

“Surprised you showed up, Lynch,” Kavinsky says, stopping in a power stance, legs wide. His tennis uniform is pristine, blinding white, matching his cap and his shades and his shoes. It makes his tattoos look all the more vulgar, and though he's had to give up his chains, he has the word 'thief' elegantly monogrammed into his collar.

Ronan loathes him with every ounce of his being, which is absolutely the reason he leans in towards him. “Thought I was above this?”

“I thought this time you might have the good sense to know when you're beat and stay home.” He tips his head to Gansey and Adam. “Now you’re going to lose in front of both your boyfriends.”

“Everyone knows you're a cheater,” Ronan snaps back, prickling with the sensation of defending Gansey’s honour. “And today I've decided to play your fucking game.” His fist clenches on the strap of his tennis bag; determination blazes in his eyes. All those many, many, long nights thinking of Kavinsky will pay off today.

Kavinsky's grin falters, reveals a hint of something raw and eager underneath. But his hand squeezes his racquet’s handle, and he pulls his controlled confidence back into place. He mimes a serve, a dismissive flick of his fingers. "See you on the court.”

People ease back to let him leave, though the scattered crowd still watches, awed, well aware of this rivalry. Adam thinks his grip on reality may be fading.

“I’ve got to get ready,” Ronan says, with the dark air of a knight arming up. He tugs his sweatband into place on his forehead, and nods once to Gansey. “See you after.”

“Good luck?” Gansey tries to offer, though in truth, he doesn’t know what forces are likely to come into play. A moment later and Adam nudges him to draw attention to their counterparts – Kavinsky’s friends, watching them from the other side of the courtyard. They smirk at Gansey, who spends an unpleasant second feeling strongly like a suburban mother.

 

The match starts badly.

Ronan’s new shoes let him move faster, but overconfidence is his enemy and he didn’t practice in them, didn’t adjust himself to his new speed and range. For the first three points, he overshoots, skidding too far, clipping the ball on the edge of his racquet, granting Kavinsky cheap and easy victories as his temper spikes. He gets one good point in on a thunderous serve, but on Kavinsky’s next play Ronan overcompensates and launches the ball way out of bounds.

His whole head has gone red with heat and exertion, and he drips with sweat; “That’s right, Lynch, know your place,” Kavinsky calls, while Ronan can barely muster a growl in return.

Up in the stands, as far away from Kavinsky’s gang as they can get, Gansey watches nervously. “At this rate it’s going to be a breadstick,” he whispers.

Adam stares at him. “Is that real? Is that the real term?”

“Absolutely, and it’s brutal,” Gansey tells him. “The last game, when Kavinsky came up with that racquet, he got a double bagel.”

His tone was grave; Adam squints at him uncertainly. “How humiliating?”

Gansey nods dourly. “No wonder Ronan’s working so hard today.”

Being goaded by Kavinsky revived the fight in Ronan, though, and he comes back twice as hard. Now he’s had some time to adjust to the shoes they suit him perfectly, and he moves like someone who regularly attends practice. It doesn’t matter that both he and Kavinsky are _objectively_ bad at tennis – what matters is that they’re a match for each other, the power of Kavinsky’s serve met with the speed of Ronan’s return. The single person in the audience who knows good tennis groans aloud, and is drowned out by the cheers of the crowd as Ronan strikes with a driving forehand and wins the first set.

He loses his groove after they switch sides of the court. Even though his movement is sharp and precise, the afternoon sun is dipping lower and lower, angle changing, and Ronan’s aim starts getting worse. Kavinsky’s side of the court is too bright and hazy, and Ronan’s shots have trouble landing true.

Suddenly Ronan realises that K's uniform is _blinding_ white, driving the sun into his eyes, catching and turning the light like no real fabric ever could. He wanted more than his racquet to give him the edge over Ronan; the gold thread of ‘thief’ glints maddeningly on the collar.

“Goddamned cheater,” Ronan growls, squinting against the glare.

“Something catch your eye?” Kavinsky asks, feigning innocence. “Is it just me distracting you Lynch, or do you have this trouble against all the boys?”

“Like your skinny legs are worth looking at,” Ronan shouts, managing to return the ball in a vicious backhand. It lands in bounds, if barely, a point to him. He roars, “ _Fuck_ yeah!” and immediately loses the point for the obscenity. Kavinsky crows and flips him off, and gets away with a warning.

The rest of the set goes badly, the umpire refusing to acknowledge Ronan’s claims of his opponent’s ‘aggressive uniform’; Ronan is trapped between trying not to look at Kavinsky head-on and trying not to look at his legs even though the stupid little tennis shorts do a devious job of showing them off.

He fumbles his way through the rest of the set, losing in what Gansey calls ‘a classic bagel’.

“You've got to let him drop out,” Adam tells Gansey. “If he quits Aglionby, he can quit the club, and then he won’t have to do _this_ anymore.”

They switch sides again. The sun behind Ronan doesn’t bother Kavinsky; his shades have stayed on in every match they’ve played, no matter how many times the umpire has asked him to take them off. Now it’s power against speed, neither of them co-ordinated enough for skill, and a watchful silence settles over the court.

K serves, trying a deep shot to catch Ronan off guard; Ronan has to lunge, but he reaches it, a clean backhand sending it back over the net, and Kavinsky watches it come, readying his backhand and getting his timing just right.

The racquet connects, and for a second Ronan sees real sparks flare around the ball before it's coming back at him, screaming like a meteor. With a bellow, Ronan dives, shredding his knees on the court floor but managing to knock the ball with the tip of his racquet. It bounces high, but K’s couture tennis shoes keep him moving too slow, and it lands in the back corner, another clear point to Ronan.

The crowd in the stands holler their delight. Adam and Gansey look at each other, increasingly troubled, but when Gansey starts clapping Adam follows his lead.

Something’s different when Kavinsky picks up the ball to serve. Maybe Ronan’s been a tougher opponent than he thought possible; maybe he’s done playing games. That last rally was clearly over the line, though, and now there’s no humour in Kavinsky’s face as he sets his stance.

The ball goes up; Kavinsky’s racquet comes down in an overhead smash, all the magic bound to the strings firing at once, and the ball slams into Ronan’s side with a shockwave. It takes a second for the air to settle, but the ball does not rebound; it’s trapped in the crater it made on impact, warping the ground. 

This the absolute final straw. Ronan flings his racquet aside and storms across the court. Kavinsky stops laughing when Ronan shoves him up against the net, fingers twisting in his shirt. The umpire shouts something that Ronan doesn’t give a fuck about hearing, and he spits into Kavinsky’s face, “You are the _worst!_ You’re not even _good at tennis!_ You only play to show off all your dreamed up bullshit and your stupid tight shirts, you absolute fuck!”

Somewhere in the distance, a whistle is blowing; nervous ball boys circle, afraid it’s going to be their job to break the players apart. “You’re just the same as me, Lynch,” Kavinsky hisses. “You think you can keep your moral high ground because I know you didn’t get your fucking trainers at Footlocker. Team up with me. If we played doubles, we would be unstoppable.”

For a second, Ronan hesitates. It’s almost tempting. But Kavinsky is a cheater, and Ronan is intent on him, hell-bent on him, _against_ him, and he says, “It’s never going to be you and me.”

Kavinsky’s smile finally falters. “You will _never_ make it to regionals.”

“ _Bite_ me asshole,” Ronan snaps, and for a second it looks like Kavinsky actually will, before he smashes his head into Ronan’s face instead. Ronan shouts and recoils. They fumble badly, Ronan holding the front of K’s shirt, managing to punch him hard in the jaw, Kavinsky trying to crush Ronan’s nose while ugly dark blood spills over his pristine tennis clothes.

Ronan’s wrenching on K’s hair as K’s teeth fix in his arm when the official finally closes in, pulling them apart, forcing both of them to untangle even as Ronan keeps reaching for Kavinsky, trying to strangle him with the netting.

The umpire rules the game goes to neither of them. Both of them are banned from ever setting foot in the Henrietta Tennis Club again.

Adam and Gansey are quiet on the ride back home, mistaking Ronan’s silence for thoughtfulness. Eventually, grudgingly, still clutching his nose, Ronan mutters, “Tennis is stupid.”

**Author's Note:**

> They fuck in the locker room after wearing nothing but their tennis shoes, creating a horrible squeak squeak squeak on the tiled floor.


End file.
